


Only Opportunities to Learn

by compo67



Series: Punzel Verse [30]
Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Beach Sex, Commitment, Committed Relationship, Devotion, Explicit Sexual Content, Family, Family Feels, Feels, Growing Up Together, Healing, Implied Mpreg, M/M, Making Up, Multiple Orgasms, Parenthood, Relationship(s), Semi-Public Sex, Timestamp, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-31
Updated: 2017-08-31
Packaged: 2018-12-22 02:10:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11957511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compo67/pseuds/compo67
Summary: November sets into Santa Monica calm and cool. Jensen starts working a second job to support the family. He learns a few things in the process.





	Only Opportunities to Learn

November sets into Santa Monica calm and cool.

This is the time of year when California natives can be easily spotted and separated from tourists. Whenever it dips below seventy, folks who have lived in California for more than a year start to pull out their sweaters and jackets. A group of tourists from Iowa visit the gardens and praise the sixty-five degree day as if the universe had bestowed them a gift.

Jensen drops the kids off at school on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. He walks them to their classroom, helps them out of their jackets, hugs each of his three tiny humans, and departs for work.

Life has been chaotic, but Jensen leaves the kids with the knowledge that they have all met or exceeded expectations since their start date in August. Conferences and notes and progress reports have all had positive things to say about each triplet as an individual. They still have a ways to go in terms of social interaction with their classmates during free time, but so far, Bailey, Hailey, and Kaylee all enjoy school.

A group of tourists from Florida wait for Jensen by the time he arrives to the gardens. Early risers, they didn’t balk at the seven o’clock start time. Ken arrived at six thirty to set up the conference room on the second floor, and carefully laid out a light and simple brunch. From seven to eight thirty, he talked about the history of certain plants and flowers, and gave a demonstration on bonsai care. Now, at quarter to nine, Jensen takes over. The gardens open at ten, however, these folks have booked it for a personal, private tour.

“If you’ll follow me,” Jensen announces, motioning towards the main entrance to the rooftop. “We’ll start with the most basic foundation of our gardens: the soil.”

Early morning, private tours were Jensen’s idea. They bring in a sizeable profit and don’t cut into a large portion of public hours. It gives visitors a chance to have Jensen’s full attention, and a quieter tour through the gardens. He answers questions, explains the soil, pH balances, arrangements, and maintenance information. Many of the folks in this tour group are avid gardeners; their questions get in-depth, and he has a ten minute conversation all about California lilacs.

Once this tour ends, Jensen checks in with Ken and sits down in their shared office to write grant proposals for a few hours and answer emails. They’re renting out the gardens to two nonprofits from Los Angeles for galas and fundraisers, but also incorporating tours for those guests. Ken books a flight to Sacramento to study some specimens he’d like to add to the gardens. Jensen voices his opinion that he’d like to start with the Manzanita first, then try the Desert willow.

With office work done, Jensen joins Joy in the gardens to provide more tours to the folks passing through. He makes recommendations to amateur and experienced gardeners, greets the regulars, and checks in on the yoga class in the northeast corner of the gardens.

After lunch at his desk, he dedicates his afternoon to the gardens themselves, probably the most peaceful part of his day. He works with a set of bonsais and dwarf trees until four thirty. Joy will lock up; she shoos him out.

From quarter to five to five thirty, Jensen stops at home, makes and eats a sandwich, and changes clothes. He says hello to Misha or Jeff, this time Jeff, and gets a mini status report on the kids. They’re on a play date, which Misha is directing, and so far, there have been no reports of glitter accidents, potty accidents, or beetle accidents.

Before he leaves, Jensen checks his phone. No new texts.

He sighs and heads out, worried he might be late.

Fortunately, traffic treats him well. He clocks in at exactly six and starts his four hour shift as a seasonal, part-time unloader and loader at UPS.

It’s a shit job in the sense that all seasonal workers are one hundred percent disposable and quotas often exceed human capability. But it pays reasonably well, didn’t require a college degree or much experience, and offers as much overtime as can be worked. The job boils down to take these boxes there and bring these boxes here. Don’t drop shit. Don’t throw shit. Move fast. Faster when the managers walk past.

Jensen started working here two days a week from six to ten at night right when Jared started going to therapy. Jared needed to take time off from either school or work and he chose work. Jensen helped him with that decision. Jared didn’t ask Jensen to work a second job, but Jensen went out and got one. He wore one of Misha’s suits to the interview with the big time managers at UPS and was offered the job on the spot.

They needed a way to pay for the copays for therapy and not fall behind in contributing their fair share to the guys. Misha and Jeff never asked for money to cover school supplies or clothes for the school year, but Jensen felt it was important to pay them for half. His first paycheck from UPS went straight to that and two of Jared’s copays.

The warehouse sucks, but it has its moments.

Most of the guys there work it as their second or third jobs. Most of them have families. Most of the time, they all keep to themselves while on the dock. During breaks or right after a shift, they’ll shoot the breeze and pass around cold cans of Coke.

November sees a dramatic increase in their work. Managers scurry from row to row, checking on production, productivity, and numbers. Deadlines. Pressure. Jensen swears he will never ship anything during the holidays ever again. He promises the universe to only ship things from February to September.

One of the managers convinces Jensen to stay until midnight. By one in the morning, Jensen leaves, drives half an hour back to Santa Monica, and slips into the house unnoticed. He sleeps on the couch so he won’t disturb Jared. Right before he falls asleep, he oddly enough, thinks about the guys at the warehouse. Some of them have worked there every holiday season for ten years in a row. Some of them are full timers who enjoy the rush and extra hours the season brings.

The exhaustion in Jensen’s muscles tells him he won’t be either one of those guys.

Still, no matter how bleak it gets in the warehouse, it isn’t as bad as Disney.

 

“You need to stop sleeping on the couch, Jen.”

“I didn’t wanna wake you up.”

“I’m not the princess and the pea. I don’t mind waking up for a second as long as I know you’re home safe.”

“Yeah, but it was late.”

“You’re working too hard. I’m…”

“If you say you’re sorry, I’m gonna throw this piece of toast at you.”

“I fear no toast.”

“I’m too tired. But in an alternate reality, this toast is being flung at your head.”

“I can go back to work.”

“Don’t, Jared, it’s too early.”

“If we don’t talk about it now, when?”

“This is temporary. All of it. It’s not always gonna be like this.”

“...how do I know you’re not quietly resenting me for this?”

“Because I chose to do this.”

“I feel so selfish.”

“You are not selfish. This is just… leaning. You’re leaning on me. Go ahead, lean.”

“That’s all I ever do though, lean on you.”

“Nah. Sometimes you snore on me. Drool on me.”

“You are so tired.”

“Yep. I’ll be home by five. You gonna be here?”

“Tristan has an appointment at four thirty. I said I’d go with him.”

“Good. Tell him I say hi.”

“You can tell him yourself…”

“I know. But even my thumbs are tired. I have two tours this morning and then I’m gonna nap in the office.”

“Please, please be careful driving to work.”

“You got it, Tall Man.”

“I worry about you.”

“You worry about everyone.”

“Punzel.”

“Hmm?”

“I… thank you. For everything.”

“C’mere.”

“...”

“You’re welcome. For everything.”

 

Instead of sleeping during his lunch break, Jensen reads.

While he’s thankful for the break from reading emails and grant writing-related materials, the topic of his book isn’t exactly book club material. He memorizes lines the way he memorizes poetry. _Touch can be overwhelming; ask for and define clear boundaries.Intimacy may seem like a challenge. It is an opportunity for new and stronger communication._

Jensen highlights a few passages.

_There is no relationship without conflict or baggage. We each bring some degree of both to the table. What are we willing to keep and what are we willing to let go?_

The phone rings. A potential donor wants to know if they can take a private tour tomorrow at five in the morning. They have an early flight out to New York, but they’d like to view the gardens and meet with Ken and Jensen. Closing his book, Jensen opens both of his calendars--the one on his phone and the one on his desk. The turnaround will be brutal, but Jensen can’t turn down a potential donor.

“That will work just fine,” he replies, upbeat and warm. “I look forward to it.”

 

When he worked at Storybook, he was one employee of thousands.

It wasn’t his business. He had no sense of ownership over his job, work, or position. It wasn’t the worst job, but he lacked any sense of investment. Nothing was truly his or an accurate reflection of his work and his work alone.

This is not the case at the gardens.

Ken still inspects his work with the bonsais and makes suggestions here and there. He points out a section where Jensen could have clipped with more elegance and therefore preserved the natural form of the tree. With care, Ken shows Jensen how to gauge the canopy size of this bonsai, which has been difficult to tend to because of its shape. Despite Jensen’s attempts, it hasn’t evenly distributed its growth. Ken prunes areas at the top.

He reminds Jensen that the aim is not to force the tree to grow into any particular shape.

Their aim is to help it grow into its destined shape, and highlight the beauty of that shape. Everything they do is to help these trees become as vibrant and healthy as they can possibly be.

Handing over the shears, Ken pats Jensen on the back. Mistakes will occur. Nature never reveals the exact shape of each bonsai until the caretaker dedicates time to understanding it. It is natural and expected that caretakers prune a little too much here, pinch less there, or overlook the growth of a new branch there. Without mistakes, how would they know what or what doesn’t work?

“Perhaps not even mistakes,” Ken says. He nods at Jensen’s new efforts. “Maybe only opportunities to learn.”

Jensen writes these things down.

They feel extremely important.

 

At the warehouse that night, Jensen buys a round of Cokes from the vending machine for the guys on break at the same time as his. For once, the machine doesn’t eat up his bills or reject his perfectly valid quarters. He passes out each can and settles down on the curb alongside Bill and Gilberto. Mitch and David stand, while Ishmael drags over a crate as a makeshift chair.

Mitch talks about how his two year old refuses bath time because her toys float away during it, which makes her incredibly upset, which makes him and his wife incredibly tired. He takes a long drink of his Coke and shakes his head. They can’t just use less toys during bath time--one of the toys will be sad and cry and then another vicious cycle starts up. They’ve tried hanging the toys on the sides of the tub--unacceptable. Placing the toys on the edge of the tub--unconscionable. Give the option of one or two toys--unthinkable.

“Use a laundry basket,” Jensen offers. “Put it in the tub, put her in it, and the toys won’t float away.”

A moment of awed silence descends upon their group. Mitch places his hands on Jensen’s shoulders and declares him a prince--no, a king, a king among men.

Bill laughs and tosses a new scenario for Jensen. His eight year old can’t eat a popsicle or ice cream cone without making a mess. Cups of ice cream are fine, but the second there’s a handheld component, there’s ice cream everywhere, sticky hands, and upset adults.

“That’s easy. Just stick a coffee or soda lid under the popsicle or cone. Or a paper cupcake holder. It’ll catch everything. Next.”

Ishmael volunteers a question. His four year old keeps rolling out of bed, falling off of it in the middle of the night. They’ve tried bumpers, but Magda hates them. Besides having her sleep in between him and his husband, what else can they try?

“Pool noodle under the fitted sheet in bed. Works like a charm without feeling like you’re placing them in bed-prison.”

Mitch comes forward with another question--any advice for how to teach which shoe goes on the correct foot?

Jensen nods. “Get a sticker of a cartoon character she likes. Cut it in half and stick each half in the soles. She’ll see the sticker and match it with the right side.”

Crayon on the walls?

“WD-40.”

Bathroom mats slipping around?

“Velcro.”

Little fingers getting stuck in doors?

“Pool noodle again.”

Detangling doll hair?

“Water, dish soap, hair conditioner.”

Break ends with one last question from Gilberto, who has been taking notes in his phone the entire time. His little one keeps asking for toys whenever they go grocery shopping. Aside from no or later or other specific reasons, what can he say or do?

“Take a picture of it with your phone,” Jensen says and takes the last sip of his Coke. “Then email that picture to Santa or the Easter Bunny. Your pick.”

Back in the warehouse, Jensen explains the finer points of cleaning vomit stains off of fabric.

 

Computers. Television sets. Furniture.

Every package tonight seemed like it was hellbent on being heavier than the last. Jensen walks out of the warehouse sore and tender all over. Someone could slap him on a grill and have a real juicy steak with the way his muscles have been tenderized. Bill gives him a pain patch before they split up in the parking lot. Jensen applies it to his lower back and sits in his car, forehead to the steering wheel.

It doesn’t feel like that long ago when he was exhausted from working at Disney and helping Jared through his journey of bringing three kids into the world. Then again, when he thinks of the difference between the kicks he used to feel through Jared’s middle and the kicks he feels when one of the kids climbs into their bed, it seems like forever ago. Everyone is born, able to walk, run, jump, eat solid foods, read and write their first names, and practice somersaults in the backyard with Mimi and Mommy.

Everyone of them can pick out what style shoes they want to wear, how they want their hair to look, and voice unwavering opinions on the popularity of Doc McStuffins.

On the half hour drive back home, Jensen turns over memories in his mind.

Pulling into the driveway, he notices a light on in the living room. It’s almost one in the morning; someone probably can’t sleep. It might be Jeff, who has been experiencing drag-related insomnia. Jensen found him awake at two in the morning, in his robe and boxers, muttering to himself in front of his laptop. He was grumbling about the price of sequins. Jensen sat down next to him in order to provide some moral support, but ultimately, fell asleep on Jeff, who also fell asleep. Misha found them the next morning, passed out, dead to the world.

Why would anyone choose exhaustion over and over?

Jensen unlocks the front door and steps in as quietly as possible. He heads over to the living room, shucking off his UPS coat, and sees Jared, reading a book on the storytime couch.

Jared looks up, poems in his eyes, and verses in his calm, soothing smile.

He stands up and takes Jensen’s hand.

Just a second later and they are out the front door, in Jensen’s car, on the way to the boardwalk. Without words or instructions, their legs take them past the garlic fries stand and to a serene strip of sand and ocean.

Santa Monica at one in the morning, in the first week of November, pushes them close together for warmth. First, it’s an embrace. Then, a kiss. Then another kiss. Slow circles over shoulder blades. Sighs against chests. Fingers through hair. Nose to nose. Cheek to cheek. Not a single inch of space between them from nose to hip. Jensen closes his eyes and basks in the feeling of Jared’s body against his--soft, familiar, needed.

Contentment hums through Jensen. He holds Jared in a tight embrace. Jared returns that embrace with the same amount of strength. Relief greets them. They have been eager for it.

It feels so good--every bit of this everything. Jared against him. Their lips pressed together. Their hands mapping, exploring, claiming territories. Their appetites rushing with the urgency of dormant volcanoes coming into a new era of heat and fire.

It feels good. It feels right.

Yet.

There need to be words here. Before anything can happen, there need to be clear, direct words.

Jensen gives Jared one last kiss, then pauses their rhythm, slows down the meter of their lines. Hands framing Jared’s jaw, their eyes meet. Jensen lowers his hands to Jared’s shoulders.

“Do you want to keep going?”

Jared not only smiles--he laughs. And he hugs Jensen so tight, they threaten to topple over.

The most important words sound out in a low, breathy rumble. “Yes.”

In a perfect world, they might both have the patience to wait and drive back home to their bed and have quiet, yet sand-less sex. Since this is no perfect world and neither one of them has the patience or desire required to either go back home or have quiet sex, they improvise. They’ve had sex on couches, in kitchens, in bathrooms, in showers, in tubs, on tables, even in tool sheds, but never on the beach.

Logical people understand why sex on the beach isn’t as appealing as it sounds.

Laughing and snorting with pleasure and excitement, Jared pulls Jensen down onto the sand, where they land with a thud. It’s been… forever. Forever for this, but also, forever since Jensen has heard Jared laugh like that. There are many variations of the Jared Padalecki laugh. There’s one for the kids, one for their family, one for acquaintances, one for customers, one for cashiers, and one for irritating people.

And there has always been one for Jensen.

That’s the laugh he hears now.

Jensen pins Jared down with his hips, grinding, and kisses Jared in between laughs of his own and feverish moans. The shore never changes. Jensen matches the constant ebb of water over sand. A November rush of wind makes them feel light, refreshed, and hungry for the intimate warmth beyond their clothes.

Sand gets everywhere and they have yet to start.

Not many people are on the beach this late at night, however, there are enough scattered along the beach that Jared pulls Jensen towards the pier. They giggle and laugh while trying to walk across the beach--both of them hard and obviously aroused. Their footsteps fight against the pale sand. Jared makes it over first, hands on his hips, chest heaving, his cheeks flushed and mouth looking so, so pretty.

Jensen pounces.

Once more, they topple, landing in a spot underneath a section of the pier. Beer bottles, condom wrappers, cans of spray paint, and Starbucks cups decorate this hideaway. Not the most romantic or practical places to engage in sexual relations, but Jared doesn’t seem to care, so why the hell should he? What’s more important is extracting kisses from that pink, wet mouth and reacquainting their hips by grinding down.

His senses awaken from the captivating, sweeping touch and feel of Jared’s fingers, the palms of his hands, his mouth, chest, and hips. Emotions and cravings rise to the surface quick--thrilling and impatient.

Touch-starved.

That’s what this is.

“I’ve missed you,” Jared murmurs, his voice as soft and pliant as his body and the sand beneath them. “I’ve missed you so much, Jen.”

“Same. So much same,” Jensen breathes out. He kisses Jared, deep and rough. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about…”

“Stop.” With a brief kiss and embrace, Jared pulls Jensen closer. Nose to nose, they lay on the sand, under the pier, light from the boardwalk reflecting off discarded beer bottles. “You’ve apologized already, you don’t have to keep doing it.”

“I feel like…” Jensen struggles with words, as usual. “I have to keep saying it.”

“You don’t. I’ve been working on it. We’ve been working on it. You came to therapy with me last week and that... that already means so much to me.”

It is still difficult for Jensen to talk. He can carry on conversations about parenting hacks or native species of plants in California or how he and Jared carried on at Disney. Those words are easier with strangers. He will never become the most talkative person in any group, but he can function. In the two therapy sessions he shared with Jared, he talked more than he has about his feelings since he has in years.

“I’m trying,” he offers, with a squeeze to Jared’s shoulders.

Jared smiles. “You’re succeeding, Punzel. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“So quit talking and fuck me like one of your French girls.”

With a snort, Jensen kisses Jared’s chin. “The line is _draw_ me like one of your French girls.”

“Whatever! Let’s get this show on the road.”

Reality, unfortunately, sets in. Jensen has a condom in his wallet, as does Jared, and they’re pre-lubricated so that solves two issues. However, sand is everywhere. And while they think they’re relatively safe from sight at two in the morning underneath the boardwalk, there’s always a chance they will have to make a quick escape.

“From behind?” Jensen ponders.

“Not this time,” Jared answers. “Side?”

“Not gonna work.”

“I guess I could take off my jeans.”

“Sand. Everywhere.”

“Ugh, okay, okay.”

“Plus, my arms… I can’t hold myself up much longer.”

“Poor Punzel. You’re working so hard. I’m sorry…”

“Did we just talk about not apologizing? I feel like we did.”

“Touche. Okay. So how can we get it on?”

“We could go back home.”

“Jen, I need you _now_. Not later. Let me ride you.”

“Just don’t take off your pants.”

“We’ll be fine. Look how many condoms are around us. You think this is a popular spot because people get caught? Here, help me up.”

For two people involved in the care of three small humans and their cleanliness, they ignore their less than romantic environment. The second Jared rests his ass against the tent in Jensen’s UPS uniform, Jensen understands why they could not wait to go back home. He shucks off his UPS coat and creates a pillow to rest his head, to better enjoy the view.

Hazel eyes retain a spark to them, even in the shadow of the pier. Dimples flash. Long, elegant fingers tease the buttons on their jeans--first his own, then Jensen’s. Jared leans down, kisses Jensen, and palms his cock through fabric. Jensen groans, his cock twitching, responsive and aching.

Panting, Jared circles his hips, shuddering at the friction provided by his jeans. Jensen reaches up and runs his fingers over Jared’s chest, and circles over sensitive peaks. He thumbs each nipple, presses on them, encourages them to send signals straight to Jared’s cock. It works. Jared rushes to get his condom out and onto Jensen’s cock. His hands can’t work fast enough. Jensen helps. Together, in between messy kisses, and as sanitary as possible, they roll the condom on. Sand might be everywhere, but Jensen’s not going to tolerate it on his cock or in Jared’s ass. That only seems right.

The second the tip of Jensen’s cock pushes against Jared’s tight ring of muscle, Jensen simultaneously melts and winds up. His cock aches from base to tip. Jared lifts his hips for an incredible view--the flushed, heavy bulk of Jensen’s cock pushing past the first resistance of a seemingly impossible space.

Jared takes his cock beautifully.

He holds onto Jensen’s shoulders and chest for balance, jeans pushed down to mid-thigh. Jensen watches the ripple of Jared’s muscles working in his lower stomach, hips, and thighs. It’s not just the sight that causes Jensen to moan; it’s the heat, the pressure, the saturated intensity of Jared’s pink, tender hole. It sucks him in, squeezes and clenches around his cock, envelops it inch by inch.

“Ohh,” Jared gasps, eyes closed. He rests his forehead against Jensen’s chest, his hair spilling over. Hot puffs of accelerated breathing land over Jensen’s chest and collarbone. Almost to the base, Jared sucks in a deep breath and eases his hips down on the final, thick inch. Seated, Jensen pulls Jared in for a sloppy kiss. Jared whimpers into Jensen’s mouth.

It’s been about three months since they last had sex.

For a long, necessary minute, they shift, tilt, and accommodate against each other. Jared needs another minute. Jensen focuses on breathing in time to slow, languid strokes to Jared’s cock, pumping it completely hard.

Few things capture Jensen’s absolute attention as much as the sight of Jared on his cock--mouthwateringly aroused and needy.

Jensen tilts his hips up in experimental increments. Jared responds with a series of moans and gasps. Gradually, they achieve a rocking rhythm. Jared controls the depth, while Jensen handles the speed. Head thrown back, Jared loses himself and takes Jensen’s thrusts deeper, allowing himself to be fucked open, his hole stretched. The squelch of lube and friction sounds out, mixes in with their moans and occasional murmurs. Delicate muscles in Jared’s throat work whenever he moans. What little light there is brings out the highlights in his hair and the slick mess of lube between their hips.

Every thrust yields an exciting, enticing view of Jared’s curves. His ass bounces, cock slaps, and thighs tremble. And whenever Jensen’s cock hits that one bundle of nerves, Jared either whimpers or licks his lips. Jensen works against those nerves, building up the tempo, feverish and greedy. He wants every single moan, cry, shout, and plead.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Jared pants. He looks down at Jensen, pure want in his eyes. “Jen… I… mmph… I…”

“Come,” Jensen growls. “Come for me.”

“Oh… fuck…”

Neither Jared or Jensen touch Jared’s cock. They don’t need to. Jared comes in wild, desperate spurts all over his stomach and Jensen’s. He comes over Jensen’s cock, twisting, grinding, leaning back, almost screaming as Jensen keeps fucking into him. Even with Jared’s ass milking his cock, muscles squeezing, Jensen grits his teeth and concentrates on breathing and pounding. He hears the smack of his balls against the pert, round curve of Jared’s ass. He thinks of everything Jared has given him and everything he can give back.

He works Jared into coming again, creaming, gushing, dripping. Tears form in Jared’s eyes. His mouth forms an O and he watches himself come all over Jensen’s middle. Jensen offers his hands for support, holds Jared up, and allows Jared to control the pace right after. Jared closes his eyes and whimpers, fucking Jensen hard and fast, and comes one more time--messy, drenched, and soaking.

Jensen sits up. He can barely function. But he’s so fucking close.

“In me,” Jared pants, arms wrapped around Jensen’s shoulders, pulling Jensen to his chest. “Come in me.”

Nose to Jared’s chest, Jensen lets out a loud, long groan. His fingers dig into Jared’s back and hips. He comes in erratic, rushing spurts. He slides in deep, fits so tight, and empties out--shooting rope after rope of come.

Satisfied and absolutely wrecked, they collapse into a heap of sweat, shudders, tremors, come, and sand.

Jared wheezes into Jensen’s ear.

Persuasive, exhaustion sets in. Why would anyone choose to feel this tired--over and over again?

Time has gone by so fast. Six years of his life--almost seven--and when he and Jared haul ass at the sight of squad car lights, running, hobbling towards their car at breakneck speed, laughing and cursing like teenagers, their cocks just barely stuffed in their pants as they get into the car and drive away… Jensen knows he would do it all over again.

When they get home, stumble into a shower, he lets Jared know. He wants to do it all over again.

Outside, Santa Monica in November is calm and cool. Inside, it’s warm and soapy.

Jared creates an Abraham Lincoln bubble beard for them both. He smiles and frames Jensen’s jaw with his hands. “What does love look like?” His voice is shot, yet it stays unwavering and true. “Like everything I’ve ever lost come back to me.”

It’s good.

They’re good.

And they can be better.

**Author's Note:**

> poem quote at the end is from nayyirah waheed. <3
> 
> whee! an installment! and FINALLY these two are back on track. :D
> 
> comments are love!


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